Summer Storm

The sun had warmed our little valley to 80 degrees by the time I walked to work in the middle of the day yesterday. A few clouds floated above the mountains, and the air was muggy. Brittany and I were excited to be preparing dinner for a larger crowd -- about 65 -- and we kept busy in the kitchen putting away groceries from our weekly order and making salads, chicken parmesan, raspberry tarts, and fresh bread. Five thirty arrived and with it our first dinner guests. By 6:15 we had served about 65 guests and the dining room and deck were both full of happy diners. It seemed like an easy night.

About 6:30 I looked out the window and saw a frisky, skittish wind sending leaves sailing around the dinner bus parked in the driveway. The raft guides came in for dinner and said it looked like a storm was blowing in. About ten minutes later, we could look across the pasture and see the rain, coming. The guests outside felt the first drops and grabbed plates and silverware, heading for the cookhouse. And then we heard the song of the rain sheets hitting the tin roof, driving into the dirt, making rivers and puddles and pine needle dams and mud. We could hardly see across the field, and as I served pie I had to raise my voice to ask, "Would you like whipped cream?" so I could be heard above the pounding, pouring rain.

Then the bus driver called on the radio: a tree was down, and he needed someone with a chainsaw to clear the road. Bill arrived close to 7:00 with his bus, unable to go further down valley due to more trees down. Cliff, Nick, and Bethany mobilized to work on road clearing, and we spared Samantha from the dish room to take over the till for Cliff. Two damp hikers off the bus asked if there was any chance they could eat dinner while they waited to go down the road, so I turned the grill back on and Brittany grilled them a steak. Strangers often become friends at the three long tables in the casual dining room at the Ranch, but now everyone was talking to each other. "Look at that rain!" "Glad we made it off the trail before this started." Two little boys became friends in the sawdust under one of the tables as I ate my dinner.

At last Bill rounded up everyone who wanted to head down the valley, and they made a mad dash through the lessening rain to load onto his bus. As the rain continued to die down, the Ranch guests made their way to their cabins, and the cookhouse cleared. Two more rain-drenched souls, Logan and Reed, arrived from the barge with well-roused appetites. Brittany turned on the grill once again; our stragglers had polished off the chicken, so we made hamburgers and heated up leftover roasted potatoes for the boys. We cleaned up the kitchen, but we didn't have to put many leftovers away after serving 71 guests and 10 crew. By the time we were done, the dining room was empty except for Nick and Brandon, playing Cribbage. John and I joined them for a game and then walked across the damp grass under a clear sky. The storm had passed.

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This morning I woke to the same clear sky, and fresh cool air. On my run up to High Bridge I saw the evidence of the wind's frolic the night before, and smelled the sweet, fresh scent where the chain saw cut rounds had been heaved to the side of the road. Mark and Monica had been down the road when the storm hit, so they told stories of a mudslide at Frog Island, water over the road, more trees down. There is something awe-inspiring and incredible about seeing once again the wildness of the weather, of these mountains, of the God who holds them in His hand.